Ghost of Christmases Past
by TutorGirlml
Summary: A friend from Emma's past returns to her on Christmas Eve to help her regain the memories she has lost; A one-shot with a touch of "A Christmas Carol" thrown into the mix...


_This was meant to be another Christmas story, but I didn't have the heart to scrap it or wait an entire year to post it because it was a few days late. I hope you will enjoy it. Graham plays an important part in this one from beyond the grave and it draws some from Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". Obviously it's AU, though it draws from several episodes, and reimagines the last couple scenes from the winter finale. This might easily be the longest one-shot I've ever written, but more just kept coming as I wrote. I'd love it if you dropped me a line to let me know what you think when you've finished reading. I still don't own them._

"Ghost of Christmases Past"

By: TutorGirlml

White, downy flakes filter through the air lightly, gently, like the inside of a snow globe, falling to the bustling, slushy, grey sidewalks of New York City. Looking down from her window, Emma Swan marvels at how the city never stops, never slows, no matter the weather or time of day. The people packing the streets below are bundled up and hurrying in every direction, like busy ants in a hill, all with a mission: things to do, errands to run, and little time to waste stopping to admire the snow or dwell on the fact that it is only two days until Christmas.

She supposes she would be the same way if it were not for Henry. Having a child makes it important to keep the holiday alive, to follow the traditions and enjoy them – savor them – as they pass. She has closed her private detective office for the last two days to make sure she will have time to do all the Christmas activities she enjoys with him, and it will remain closed until the New Year. Peoples' desire to catch their spouse cheating or discover a secret gambling habit doesn't suit the holidays at any rate and so business had been slow.

Emma can hear her son in his bedroom down the hall now, talking with one of his friends from school and planning when they are going to go sledding at their favorite hill then follow up with hot chocolate and videogames at the other boy's house. She smiles pensively, pleased at how happy Henry sounds. She is glad her son is making friends this school year. He's so thoughtful, smart, and serious that in the past he has not always found it easy to make friends his own age, preferring her company, or that of other adults. While she treasures being so close with her only child, Emma never wants him to be left out, but to belong with friends of his own as well. For some reason that flits at the edge or her consciousness – that she cannot quite remember – the idea of being without friends and alone causes a dull ache in her, one that she feels is more than the fact that she doesn't connect with a lot of people herself. It is something from her history, which is disturbingly fuzzy to her, but she can't put a finger on it.

Her head turns from the wintry scene outside to her son entering the room when she hears the sound of his footsteps drawing nearer. "Hey Mom," he greets; looking excited already, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Nate's mom is going to pick me up here to go sledding, and she'll bring me back in the morning. That's still okay, right?"

"Yeah, Kid," she grins, ruffling his hair as she rises to stand before him, letting her fingers linger for a moment. "I told you it would be fine. Just…be careful, okay? Don't get too rowdy and hurt yourselves."

"You've got it, Mom," he agrees, always so good, so happy to please her that it continues to surprise Emma as he edges into a teenager. She is constantly expecting the angst and trauma she experienced herself in those years, and continually breathing a sigh of relief when Henry shows no signs of morphing into an angry, trying adolescent.

"Did you pack your overnight bag?" she asks.

"Yep, right here."

A knock sounds on the door a few minutes later, and Emma goes to answer it, introducing herself to Nate's mother, setting a time for Henry to be home the next morning, and exchanging cell phone numbers with the other woman. She gives Henry a quick, one-armed squeeze of a hug as he heads out the door, unable to resist, even with his friends nearby, but Henry doesn't seem to mind much, wrapping one arm around her waist in return and squeezing back for a second.

When Henry is gone, the apartment feels empty and slightly less warm, but Emma moves quickly to avoid reflecting on it too much. She goes into the kitchen, makes herself some hot cocoa, and tilts her head to one side in contemplation for a moment. Then, she digs into a seldom-opened cabinet, digs out a bottle of Jameson's and pours a healthy measure in, making her drink "Irish" and then giggling briefly at how ironic and apt it seems, despite not understanding why. Topping the whole thing off with whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon, she carries the mug and a novel she has been wanting to read back into the living room. Curling up on one end of the couch, Emma tucks her feet under herself and sips the warm, chocolate-y liquid, savoring the extra warm burn as it soothes its way down her throat. She forces herself not to wonder what she will do with herself alone all evening, and instead enjoys the cozy fire in the hearth and the two stockings and twinkling lights they have hung above it. Slowly, as the flames lull her into a trance, the warmth surrounds her, and she starts to drowsily relax, she sets her drink on the coffee table and slowly drifts to sleep. Soon, she is wrapped in the comfort of a deep dream…

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Emma becomes aware of her surroundings again in some sort of strange, blank space, somewhat grey and faded looking, hazy at the edges. Even though it seems preposterous, she can't help wondering if she has awakened in some sort of dream world. Instead of being alarmed however, she is merely curious what will happen next.

At that moment, the form of someone begins to walk toward her out of the mist. She tenses, having no idea who or what to expect, but as the person's form becomes clearer, Emma feels her body relax, though she cannot clearly explain why. Something oddly familiar about the person now stopping to stand before her face-to-face eases her mind, though she has no concrete memory of him or why this should be so. The man now studies her with equal interest and curiosity, and he has a charmingly shy and almost old-fashioned air about him. He stands three or four inches taller than she does, is lean and handsome, with a head full of thick, honey-colored curls that messily fall onto his forehead. His eyes sparkle pleasantly when he graces her with a tentative smile in greeting and holds out a hand to shake hers. He is dressed in a collared button-down shirt, under a fitted vest, and when he does speak, Emma is charmed by the lilting Irish accent in his voice. "Hello, Emma," he begins warmly, that brogue caressing her name as if it is treasure. "It's good to see you again."

She is taken aback by this gorgeous stranger knowing who she is and more so by the fact that he seems to think she knows him as well. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at him skeptically.

"You did once," he responds, a trace of sadness in his inflection, "but I realize that you might not now."

"Excuse me?" she questions, her heart fluttering anxiously a bit with confusion at his words. "That doesn't make any sense.

"I know it may not at the moment," the stranger replies, "but give me just a bit of time. I think it will all become clear."

Emma shakes her head, suddenly wanting out of the confused dream. However, nothing changes, and with a sigh, she sees no other option but to consent to this man's wishes. He doesn't seem to mean her any harm, at any rate. She nods, and with a beaming smile, he extends a hand to her. "Try something new…" he urges gently, the words causing a shiver of recognition to run through her, "it's called trust." Though she would swear it was in a voice of another timbre, in a different mood, in another time and place, she has heard those words before.

She tilts her head, looking at him more closely, trying to understand. "What did you say?" she whispers, stunned.

"Trust me," he repeats, looking her steadily in the eyes, no lies or trickery in his gaze. "Take my hand. There are things I have to show you, and there isn't much time."

The moment Emma reaches out and lets his warm fingers wrap around hers, she feels a lurch in her stomach, a jerk forward, and suddenly they are whirling in space, traveling into the unknown at the speed of light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~~~

They land with an impact that almost knocks her to her knees but the stranger catches her elbow and keeps her upright. Catching her breath and trying to still the rolling in her stomach and her disorientation, she demands, "What was that?! Who are you? How did you do that?!"

"For now, let's just say that I am your guardian angel, Emma," is all he will tell her. Instead he turns her to face the building they have landed in front of. "Does this place look familiar to you?"

She stares at the house before them – simple, plain, but with a bright, royal blue front door – and something like recognition flickers in her mind. She isn't sure what happened, or when it did, but it does seem as if she has stood here many times before. Enough so that it seems natural to reach out, turn the knob, and step through into the house.

The house seems normal, like any typical suburban home. There is a nondescript entryway with a hall tree full of coats and jackets, an archway leading further into the house, and stairs decked with garland on the banister heading up to the second floor. She can hear warm chatter from further in, and curiously she follows the sound, still hoping to discover where she is and why this place seems familiar.

Reaching the archway, she peers into a living room lit by a Christmas tree and inhabited by a man and woman that bring a quick prick of tears to her eyes, though she is again powerless to explain this reaction. Then, suddenly, she freezes, unable to speak, move, or hardly breathe, as lays eyes on the third and final occupant of the room. This isn't so much definite memory, but a clenching in her chest and shivering over her skin that tells her – impossibly – that this golden-chaired child crouching by the tree is _her_, many, many Christmases ago.

As she watches, an unsettled sense of knowing what came next washes over her. Realizing that, though the memory wasn't in her head before she was transported here, she knows this scene is about to become a painful nightmare for the little girl clutching a single present before her. Emma turns to face her enigmatic companion, hissing over her shoulder as though someone might detect her presence, "What is going on here?!"

"It's you, Emma," he whispers in that melodic voice of his, though she catches sadness and longing in its enchanting lilt as well this time. "This is a vision of an important Christmas in your past."

"Why?" she presses, almost frighteningly needing to understand, and realizing that she does not want to be here as she sees the two familiar adults beckon her child self to sit on the couch between them, and her child self obeying warily, as if she too already sees that something isn't right.

Her mysterious guest turns his eyes on her fully then, intense and undeniable, "Because it's time for you to remember now, to know who you truly are again."

"I know who I am. This is ridiculous! Why do this place and these people seem familiar when I don't know them?!"

"Emma," he says softly, laying a hand on her shoulder, "you _do _know them. Pay attention. Open your mind and heart; you _will _understand before we are done. We can't stop now."

With a frustrated growl, she stops trying to talk to him and turns back to the vision unfolding before her. The little girl Emma has unwrapped the box she was clutching and pulled out a lovely necklace, honestly one probably too nice for a child that size, with a delicate silver chain and a crystal circlet as its charm. Emma lets out a strangled gasp as she glances down, fingering the very necklace she still wears around her neck, the one she had always worn with a swan talisman as well. The other necklace is gone, she realizes, and she doesn't know where it went, or where either one had come from – until now.

More engrossed, and yet also more fearful than ever, she looks back to the Christmas-y scene. Now the two adults are taking and the child's lower lip is trembling. The child is about to cry, and Emma feels a heartbreaking knowledge and panic clawing up her chest. _'They don't want her – me – anymore,' _her mind races, knowing the truth without a doubt, and actually remembering the moment she sees. _'They're sending me away. That necklace was to help me remember them, to say that they would always care, never forget me…They wanted me to know that their affection was never-ending, like a circle. I kept it all these years to remind myself that no gift is free. Don't get too comfortable in anyone's affection; they'll change their mind and take it away.'_

The little girl is asking a question, and Emma's gut recoils even looking on. As if she could actually hear it, the question echoes in her mind, _'Did I do something wrong? Was I bad?' _The tears are streaming down the child's cheeks now, and Emma feels them on her own as well.

"Enough," she gasps, looking at her guide, almost allowing herself to plead with him. "I don't want to see this anymore. Please. I remember this, alright? Just please…get me out of here."

She is surprised to see what seem to be tears in his eyes for her as well. He cups her face in his hand, light like the brush of wings and ephemeral, but comforting nonetheless. He's sad for her, she realizes with a pang. He understands like he has felt that pain as well. He nods in assent to her request, and does as she asks. The painful memory she has been witnessing fades away, and Emma wonders where they will end up next.

~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the whirling, spinning sensation eases this time, Emma is shocked once again, both to recognize herself before her more immediately and to see herself seated with legs crossed in a jail cell. She glances to the handsome, curly-headed stranger who has brought her here and still lingers at her side, but he offers no clues, only a small smile, intended to encourage she thinks.

Shaking her head, she wonders why she expected anything else at this point and turns her attention back to the picture before her where obviously quite a few years have passed. This version of herself is no longer a child, though the sad, lost, lonely look is still in her eyes, it is even harder and clearer in a young woman's face. She appears hardened; something has happened to teach her the lesson over again – for good this time – _don't trust, people leave_. Her hair is still long and golden, and she still wears the crystal circle charm around her neck. Now, though, hanging below it, is a second pendant, one with a dark circle bearing a white swan. Flashes of memories return to her at the sight of it: a dark-haired man, a yellow car, the twinkle in the man's eyes as he gives her the swan on a keychain, a map of Florida, a hotel room, his quick smile and her light, carefree laughter in return. "Neal," she whispers, stunned that she knows the name belonging to the face in her mind's eye.

She watches this younger version of herself with a single tear staining her cheeks, head bowed, and knows the moment a tiny smile graces her careworn face a bit of happiness and wonder is felt. She places a hand on her slightly rounded stomach to feel a light kick from inside herself. "Henry," she whispers again with certainty. She knows this should seem preposterous, finding herself in situations she had not remembered until she saw them. Yet, the sense of awe at seeing, feeling, Henry within her, all the hope and family she has ever known, fills her with too much wonder to question it further.

"That's me, with Henry," she tells her companion, "but how is that possible? I was never in jail. Henry is with me, and he wouldn't have been if…"

She trails off, even before the stranger begins to shake his head slowly. "Henry wasn't always with you, Emma. He found you again. There are many times it may be painful, but the truth is coming back to you. You're regaining your story."

"I would never leave Henry," she protests, but then she looks back at herself in the memory, sees the still-so-young face go pained and frightened again, watches the past her tilt her head to hear Christmas carols sung elsewhere in the prison where she has chosen not to join in. Her eyes fall downward to her hand on her stomach, rubbing soothingly, but she can feel the self-doubt and fear rolling her gut as if she were still back in that day. She hadn't known how to care for a baby, or how she would provide for him once she got out… Could it be? She couldn't have! Shaking her head, Emma turns to her guide once more, again more than ready to leave behind the feeling rushing back over her.

This time she doesn't have to ask. His intriguing eyes understand; full of empathy and warmth, he holds a hand out for Emma to place hers within. She is only too grateful to welcome the pull as they began to move once more.

~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~~vvvvvvvvvvvvv~~~~~~~~~~~~

At their third destination, there are no former versions of her before them, only a quiet grove of trees dusted lightly with freshly fallen snow. She steps forward, studying her surroundings, breath quickening as she becomes certain she has been here before as well. This time it seems more immediate, closer to the surface of her consciousness. She turns to speak to her familiar "guardian angel", but for the first time, she doesn't find him by her side.

Emma keeps walking forward and beneath the bare bows of a large tree in the center of the clearing, she finds a nondescript headstone. Kneeling, she brushes snow away, brow furrowing, looking for a name she feels sure she will know. However, all she finds inscribed on the surface is a simple cross and a date, in the fall, two years before.

_'This was last Christmas,' _Emma thinks to herself. _'I was alone for the holidays, and I didn't think he should be too.' _She purses her lips, resting her hand atop the granite stone, reluctant to break contact and striving to remember just who this 'he' is that she feels so connected to.

"It's my gravestone," that warm, accented voice speaks from over her shoulder. Her otherworldly visitor is back again, and Emma turns to ask where he had gone, but when their eyes meet this time, it all comes flooding back. Just as she had once brought back all that had been lost to him, he now reveals to her all that had been shrouded in her mind.

"Graham?" she asks hopefully, blinking back tears. She already knows the answer, knows it is true, knows he is the sheriff who befriended her when she first came to Storybrooke. Emma is almost overwhelmed with all that has happened, which she had somehow lost. He saved her mother – Snow White – and the Evil Queen took his heart in retribution. They kissed once, and he regained his free will. The Queen – Regina – then crushed his heart. Her own heart squeezes painfully at that memory, and she reaches out for Graham's hand as he confirms her question with a silent nod. However, on contact, her hand slips through his as simply as if he were made of smoke or vapor.

"It is me, Emma," he says, his voice still beautiful, but also more laced with pain, not so much for himself as for her, "but I'm not really here. You saw me die. I'm here because it's time for you to be the Savior once more. Someone had to help you regain all the memories lost to you – even if it hurt. It had to be someone you would believe, someone you would trust – and that is a gift you do not bestow easily. I was given this Christmas Eve night to show you, who you have been, who you are, and who you yet might be."

Emma wishes desperately to embrace him, tears silently racing down her cheeks and under her chin unchecked now. She reaches up to touch his cheek, even though she can't truly feel him, unable to stop herself. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, letting out a blissful sigh, as if he can somehow feel her touch. And yet, even as they share this quiet minute, other memories are still rushing back in. She and her mother traveled to the Enchanted Forest, Captain Hook followed them back to seek his revenge on Rumplestiltskin, Neal had found out they had a son, Henry had been kidnapped, they had all gone through a portal and challenged a psychotic Peter Pan to get him back. _How could she ever have forgotten all this?_

Graham's gentle voice answers her internal question before she can put it into words. "There was a second curse. Everyone was sent back where they were from, save you and Henry. That's why you don't remember. Regina made it so you would feel you and Henry had always been together, like you had never given him up."

Sighing, Emma bows her head, once more taking up the weight of pain, missed chances, guilt, and loss that she had been without in her curse-created fog. She cannot decide which reality is worse for a long time as she stares at Graham with all the missing pieces sliding back into place at last. It is awful to think that so much could have been lost to her forever – her parents, her friends, allies – and she would have never have known the difference. Yes, she had been without the pain of the past, but it had cost her huge chunks of her present and future.

"So, why now?" she asks him, deciding not to dwell on what cannot be changed. She has always been a person of action, and that is no different in this moment. "Why were you allowed to help me remember?"

"I don't know the whys; I only know that I was," he responds, his voice low, soothing, comforting her with its caring and friendship, as it always had. "You are once again their only hope. You parents and everyone else in the Enchanted Forest need you to save them once more. I begged for the chance to be the messenger, in order to see you again, and to tell you this: Emma, there's a chance before you, but you have to fully trust, to offer you heart and take a leap of faith in order to grasp it. I once hoped that I might be that one for you, but since that was not to be, I don't want to watch you let this pass you by. There is someone for you. Someone who will stand by you, who will always back you, who will always find you. Just as your mother has in your father, you too have a True Love."

He can sense her about to interrupt, so he raises a hand to halt her words, swallows hard, and continues. "You already know who he is; you simply will not let yourself admit it. I can see in your eyes that I'm right. He has returned to your mind and your heart with all of your other memories."

Emma shakes her head and starts to protest, more scared of the vulnerability she feels than the actual idea of her True Love. "No, he can't be my True Love. It can't be – "

Graham comes so close that if he were still flesh and blood their foreheads would be touching. "Emma," he breathes, "please, let me show you one more Christmas – your Christmas future, if you will only let yourself be happy. You don't always have to be alone."

The fight drains from her at his earnest request and she nods her head in agreement. Once more, things go hazy, and then she sees a simple living room all decked out for Christmas. Three stockings hang over a crackling fire in a stone fireplace, a tree twinkles with lights and silver balls. She sees Henry looking taller and broader shouldered, sitting in a chair looking happy, comfortable, and deep in conversation with someone in another chair facing him, someone she cannot see from where she stands. Then she sees herself entering the room. There are a few more laugh lines around her eyes, there might be a few more years of age showing on her face, but she doesn't think she has changed much until her eyes reach her future self's midsection. She is clearly carrying a second child and looks to be practically glowing in the expectant joy of a second chance to be a mom from the very start.

"Hot cocoa is ready!" she announces happily, the tray of three steaming mugs in her hand. The figure that had been hidden by the chair's back before stands and quickly moves to her side, taking the tray and ushering her to his vacated seat. "Why didn't you call me, Lass?" the rich, silky voice questions. "I would have helped you."

Emma watches the scene unfold with bated breath. She and Henry are with Killian Jones – Captain Hook – and they appear to be a happy, blissful family, with a baby on the way. Those stunning blue eyes near steal her breath as he passes the tray off to Henry and then makes sure she is settled comfortably with her feet propped up. His protective hand comes to rest on her rounded stomach, worrying over her, a first time prospective papa through and through. "You need to take it easy, Emma Love," he adds, obviously not the first time he has said those words.

"You worry too much," she assures him, though touched at how much he clearly cares for her.

"Aye, that I do Lass, but only because I love you and the little one, so much." He leans down to kiss her deeply, she tilts her head back to meet his lips, and she melts a little inside, only pulling away when Henry playfully groans and tells them to get a room.

They are all laughing happily as the scene fades and she is back to standing with Graham at the edge of Storybrooke's cemetery, snow still falling around them. She looks at him once more wonderingly. "Can that really be my future?" she asks, unable to help the hope and desire in her voice.

"It can be if you will allow it," he replies sincerely.

She believes him, and in turn finds that she wants that future more than she has ever wanted anything. A hesitation, then a pang of sadness stabs her though as she continues to study his face. "What about you? Are you alright?" she asks. "I wish I had understood then, that I would have believed you before she could…" she trails off. "You do know that I cared for you – as much as I was able to then – don't you?"

"Yes, Emma, of course I do," he assures her kindly. "My curse is lifted. I'm free now. I want you to be free as well. You have a wonderful life yet to live. He is a good man. You both deserve the chance to be healed."

He brushes an errant tear (at this point she is sure she's shed more tears this night than in the whole rest of her life) off her cheek, and it feels like a breath of air it is so soft and light. "Be happy, Emma…" his voice echoes, and then Graham is gone.

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Emma is disoriented when she wakes the next morning on her couch. She tries to blink blearily and clear her head, but she knows somehow that the images, people, and places flashing through her mind, the dreams she had the night before, are all real.

Henry returns and seems no different, so they happily carry on just as they have been, enjoying the holiday season together. Emma is different inside though; she knows there is more now. There is another world and others she loves that she has to get back to. She only needs to find the way.

She bides her time, watching and waiting. So, one day, when _he_ appears at her door, she is ready. She knows Killian Jones when he returns to her, but she doesn't stop him when he kisses her; she wants the confirmation, wants to feel that pulse of pure love between them, and wants the curse on Henry's memories to be broken as well. Wants her son to know as surely as she does that this was all meant to be.

Their kiss takes her breath away; the power and light radiating from them nearly bowls her over, and the joy and awe on Killian's face enchants her. Henry comes to them at the door; his believer's heart much easier to convince than her stubborn heart had been, and he is ready to follow. Killian offers her his hand, and she takes it, finally ready to make a leap of faith and let him lead them home.


End file.
